To Whom It May Concern,
I am strikingly sentimental when I least expect it, but this letter is for someone who is not even a glimmer in an eye. Yet.
I was struck by something today and it hasn’t left me yet: your father will always be just a little bit feral.
It’s wonderful and terrible (in every sense of the word) all at once. And I hope you value that part of him, too. It makes him fierce. It makes him oh so shrewd. Protective and defensive, prone to violence when threatened.
Even my old, sleepy cat still has his streak of 'feral.' You will get along famously with Farthing, I'm sure.
Our family will never be domesticated. I find that delightful. Threaten any one of us and the ruff on our backs rises.
"Ugh, Drustvar is creepy as always." Arlyn muttered, rubbing her forearms as she walked through the forest. Despite presence of the thornspeakers making it relatively safe once more, she still disliked it.
"Why did I even agree to come and sing in Arom's Stand is beyond me..." The singer muttered, glancing left and right at the slightest noise, pushing near her breaking point. "If only I weren't stupid enough to refuse Horman's offer of escort, but noooooo, I had to be stubborn." Complaining and grumbling wasn't her style, but she couldn't help it.
The rustling of the bushes to her left made her reach for her dagger, the blade dull but better than nothing... or so she hoped.
A sudden movement from the corner of her eyes was the only warning as a wicker beats jumped at her from the other side, knocking the woman to the ground, her knife falling out of her hand. It's momentum carried it further and the creature rolled on before finding its footing again.
"Fishguts!" Arlyn cursed, struggling to reach her blade in time.
"Stay down!" A deep growl made the kul tiran freeze as something far larger jumped over her body, landing between her and the wicker beast. A thornclaw, one with many scratches on its plant-like body and a left foreleg that was different from the rest. Even its skull was marred by deep gouges.
The singer was too shocked for her mind to absorb all this, she watched like a statue as the two magical creatures tore at each other, the thornclaw making short work of the smaller beast.
"You're really out of your mind, Arlyn."
The singer's awareness was dragged back to the present by those words, her head shot up to meet the gaze of a scarred young woman.
"Brigitte... never was so glad to see you before." Lyn sagged with relief. She hated thornspeakers due to personal reasons, but the one standing before her was the exception to that rule.
"Are you seriously alone? Tch..." The ragged-looking druid grumbled, her eye suddenly focusing on something deeper in the forest. "You should go. This area still has feral creatures like that prowling around. Move, now."
"Umm... couldn't you come with me, at least until I'm through the forest. Arom's strand isn't that far from that point. Pleeeeease!"
Brigitte just rolled her eye at first, but something made her furrow her brows and finally sighed. "Alright. I'll take you there. That's the quickest and safest for you."
She didn't even wait for Arlyn's thanks before shapeshifting into a wicker stag and lowered herself to the ground.
The singer couldn't hide a grin as she mounted, wrapping her arms securely around the stag's neck.
Brigitte checked that her passenger was secure, then bolted off. She wouldn't stop until her charge was safely at her destination.
Holden grunted in exertion as they crested the hill, his feet more accustomed to paved roads, he'd never really taken to the outdoors like his father, much to his chagrin. Unfortunately, his mother was far more used to travel as well, and there she was, waiting down the path on the other side, waiting for him. "Mom... slow down..." he complained catching his breath, the tone a bit more whiny than he'd intended, his mother's smirk was a bit embarrassing, made him feel like a child.
"Oh, i'm sorry, just exited! Peaks just down the way from 'ere, look!" she pointed eastward, and the young dwarf looked upon the large Gryphon statue overlooking the vast valley below. Hill dwarves were an apt descriptor, there were rolling roads going up and down hills all over, and little smokestacks and windows signifying several hundred homes within them.
"Why are you so excited, anyway?" he asked, again. "I dont think you mentioned any relatives that still lived here?"
Darlain sighed as she turned and headed down the path once more, "Now now, this was my 'ome, and this is me clan, and yer part o' that. Tradition's important lad, and you 'ave a choice tae make, just like all my children."
That peaked his curiosity. "You took Lorelei 'ere?"
His mother nodded. "Aye... though uhh... she made a surprisin' choice." His eyebrow raised at that, and he hurried to match her pace.
His answer would come as they met with clan elders, had a hearty meal at the inn, and finally met with the local shaman, dressing him up in simple robes adorned with gryphon downs.
He was led up the pathways carved into the mountains to the north, and he saw them, perched within carved out holes in the mountain, at least fifty large gryphons, some watchful, some enjoying naps, some messily tearing into prey they had brought back to their roosts.
An elderly man, his beard long and grey, adorned in a feathered headband, his face and arms painted in elaborate blue tattoos. His mother bowed before him, and Holden mirrored his movements. "Come, boy, we'll let her take a look at you." Holden eyed his mother curiously as he was lead into the main Aerie, and his mother simply smiled and encouraged him onward.
"We wild'ammer," the man spoke as they walked. "'ave an understandin' with these majestic creatures, lad. And though you 'ave nae been raised in the 'interlands, yer blood still speaks our covenant with them."
"What do y'mean?" Holden inquired, nervously.
"Gryphons require a lot o' food tae keep goin, mothers kin wear themselves out feeding themselves, much less their children. Used tae be a time where entire clutches would be lost, even in prosperous times. They used tae 'unt us, though meager was out meat compared to larger game.... so tae save ourselves, far and long ago, we lived under 'ills, and shared our kills, till they learned we were better alive."
The two stopped at a large nest, a proud, gold and brown feathered Gryphon looked up in anticipation eying three eggs still nestled in what was a much larger nest, her head cocked curiously seemingly sizing up Holden with an unnerving intelligence behind her eyes.
"Over time, we were permitted in their spaces, just as they joined us in ours. They 'unted the wyverns that plagued the skies and still 'unted us, we made spaces, aeries, for them to roost. And when the mothers were forced tae abandon some of their clutch... we took them. And we raised 'em tae bear our warriors. This 'as been the way of things fer thousands o' years. Tae the point where... that is what is done."
He held out a shaky hand to the gryphon's beak, petting her affectionately. "This'll be the last egg of 'er clutch she'll be giving to us tae care fer. And as a child o' one of our clan, you'll be 'aving a choice. Which o' the eggs will yeh be taking... if ya be taking on the charge at all?"
Holden smiled to himself, now knowing why his mother had brought him here. How she had once been given this choice, how much finding Patience alive had affected her, he remembered seeing her cry when she'd taken him on his first flight with the old Gryphon. How exhilarating it had been for him to soar above the clouds.
As he approached the mother, she lowered her head, and instinctually, he raised his hand to press against her forehead. She pressed towards him affectionately, but with enough force to catch him offguard, sending him off his feet, eliciting a worried coo from her. laughing a bit at his lack of constitution, Holden got to his feet... and chose his egg. He picked the smallest of the three. walking out to show his mother.
Her smile was infectious, he couldn't help but share in her joy.
Violet sighed as she wandered through the Balshahn Bazzar. Poised to set forth into the void with her friends any hour now, she decided to kill time with some retail therapy before they were to return The Great Work. If she felt she wasn't about to be swarmed with voidsent, she'd be back at the bar further sampling the spiced whisky varieties Radz-at-Han had to offer. Instead, she was left sober and to her own devices.
Arriving at a toy stand her eyes fixed upon a colorfully patterned stuffed pig. Loneliness finally clawed at her rib cage. She hated to admit it, but she missed the twins and the others left behind. Traveling the world was lonely business and without them there to keep her spirits up, motivation to stay sober and on task seemed to evaporate.
"Ah, Violet. I didn't take you for the poppet sort," a voice gruffly called behind her.
Approaching in his armour, Esteninen joined the Limsan and gave her a smile.
"Yeah, they go so well with my tea sets and party dresses," she answered wryly with an eye roll.
"Well pardon me for making an observation. Then what are you doing here?"
Violet paused. "I don't know. Killing time before we help the kid find his sister. I thought maybe twins might want a memento of the journey. They didn't make the trip here last time, right," she asked before snapping her fingers at the Auri attendant. "Hey, you! I'll take the pig and one of the carbuncles."
"Right away miss. Right away."
Esteninen let out a hearty laugh as the toy maker packaged Violet's selection.
"Do you not think them a bit beyond a stuffed menagerie?"
"Yeah. Probably. I just figured it would have been nice to have had folks get me shit like this when I was their age. It would have meant someone out there gave a damn about me. It's the little things, y'know."
The dragoon straightened up a bit as Violet handed over the Gil for her purchase. He seemed lost in thought, staring at a stuffed Vytra before snapping his gaze towards the toymaker"...I'll take the dragon."
Violet turned, brow raised.
"What," the Elzen gruffed.
"It's a little on the nose for our dear little Satrap."
"Shut up," Esteninen grunted, exchanging Gil for the large plush, "Let us make haste to the aetheryte plaza and send your gifts off with a courier. I imagine Y'shtola will come to collect us soon."
"I didn't remember inviting you along," Violet answered wryly, turning for the suggested destination. The dragoon chuckled and wandered behind, blind to the grateful smile of the woman ahead of him.
“My Lady, there are a few pieces left in the attic to discuss; some of your mother’s dresses, Lord Halandir’s collection of hunting bows, your grandmother’s collection of silver reagents, chests of your father’s research, and your wedding portrait,” Keranna’s voice stayed pleasantly even as she rattled off the list of objects.
Fiorenze frowned and glanced over toward her seneschal; She had been putting off those decisions for a reason — notably not wanting to think about it, but it seemed like the matter was going to be forced. “Please take the dresses to Pyraelia, there may be some she would like to keep or have altered to fit her. The bows… auction them, I suppose, and give the money to the village council in Glimmerglen to use as they see fit. A gift from the Estate for the benefit of the tenants.
The silver reagents,” she took a moment to think. There was a distinct possibility that some of those were no longer made, or if they were, would be difficult to find, “There’s a shop in Dalaran that will restore them, would you take them there and have them cleaned up? I think I’ll keep them. Thank you, Keranna.”
“And the wedding portrait, my Lady?”
Fiorenze frowned. She’d hoped Keranna wouldn’t ask about it again. That she’d pick up on the hint. Perhaps she had, and simply refused to give her a reprieve. Would it be appropriate to tear it apart with her bare hands? Sear it to ash and cinder by hurling fireballs at it? Using it for target practice with his own bows before they were sold? The temptation to take out her wrath on it was so tempting — fuck being ladylike about it, some things were worth going feral over.
But he had loved her once.
And she had loved him.
Did five years of distance and his flirting with divorce to chase an heir erase 45 years of joy? His actions had certainly tarnished their union, at any rate.
Their wedding portrait was them at their happiest — starting anew, with their whole lives ahead of them.
She sighed, and shook her head, sentimentality winning out over the deep hurt, “Would you look and see if there are any galleries interested in collecting a new piece by Parvanis Du’theril? Since his death I think all of his work has become more valuable, I heard his painting of the last Queen sold privately for quite a bounty. Perhaps someone else could appreciate it for a time.”
From the creaky floorboards with chipped paint and deep cracks that let cool air seep in, to the wooden steps that were worn down from years of her father stepping over them.. The caravan was her home, and it held a lot of memories. Ikhaara had the magic to make it like new again, but then it wouldn’t be her caravan anymore, not in her mind anyway and thankfully, he understood that.
He didn’t want to take away that sentimental value from Zeehva. But in the middle of a cold night in the midst of Winterspring, or during the humid afternoons of Stranglethorn, he would take it upon himself to fix a crack or two with his magic. Keeping the caravan in just good enough shape so that Zeehva wouldn’t have to worry about it, and could instead enjoy making more memories in it. Adding to the sentimental value.
And while the floors told stories of dancing, and sang songs from days long past.. The walls held laughter, tears, and playful whispers.. And the wheels, rickety as they were, rolled their own marks into the earth in hopes her trails would be remembered, or even followed. Every inch of Zeehvas caravan was a masterpiece in her eyes, painted over time, day by day, by the ones she loved and held a value no amount of coin could ever compete with.
The stone of the monument was rougher under Theras’ touch than he remembered. Age was not kind to stone so far away from the watchful eye of any groundskeeper - or beyond the runestone chain that preserved the northern forests of Quel’Thalas. Cold and damp had marred the Dawnwing memorial, but the flame Theras and his father rekindled yearly still burned brightly at its top, a beacon among the ruined walls and ravaged gardens whose comfort Theras had never gotten to know. His family legacy, just another broken heap of stones deep in the Ghostlands.
Any time his scouting orders took him near the estate, he made a point to stop and pay his respects. Though his grandparents, the former owners of this land, had died when he was only a child, their faces and voices a hazy memory, he had never stopped honoring their memory. He knew his father hadn’t either. His mother, though...
Theras knelt, pressing head to the cool, pockmarked stone, a smaller flame tucked away in a recess of the monument. She was not a Dawnwing, a relationship cut short by circumstance. Only Theras lived on to properly care for her memory. And so, here he sat, every chance he got, a silent visitor in the dead woods.
He stood, head still bowed, and made his way out of the old estate, back into the forest, back north, back home.
As he slipped into the brush, silent as a stalking lynx, he idly fingered a worn leather collar hanging from his belt, a few white hairs still woven into the material, another memento of a dear friend lost to the ravages of time.
There always had to be someone to keep memories alive.
Mitharios was a man about the work, his new station in the Lady Shadowfel's organization came with opportunities aplenty, and he was hungry for it all. It was a rare thing, in his experience, for such a high and lofty person like the Boss to get their hands dirty, typically leaving the gruesome details to the underlings to deal with, but this was a whole new world.
The call came in the late night hours, the Sparrows had collected a target for questioning, and they were to gather to soften his meat before the Boss arrived. "Delightful." Mitharios responded, gathering his things and heading to the storehouse to join in the fun.
A seemingly inconsequential building on the shady side of Stormwind, appearing like all the rest, but containing its own precious cargo; Mitharios rapped on the heavy wooden door, awaiting the slot to open and admittance to be granted.
Dusty crates lined the path, creating a barrier between the entrance and the dimly lit room, and an elven man was restrained in the single chair below the low-hanging light.
"Thorn," The lead Sparrow spoke in greeting, the young world-weary woman stood before him with a deadpan look upon her face, cheeks gaunt and hair of ashen violet. "The target is still unconscious, figured you'd rather be the first face he sees."
"Well done, Amytheisa. You and the others are dismissed if that is your wish." Mitharios replied, removing his black leather gloves and moving toward the imprisoned man.
A single heavy-handed slap across the man's face was all it took to wake him from his state, gasping in shock as he looked around to find the peril he had fallen into, pulling at his binds to find escape was impossible. "Morning Sunshine," Mitharios spoke in a mocking tone, leaning down to meet the man's eye with a wide and cheeky smirk. "Comfortable? No? Good."
"W-why am I here?! Who are you?!" The man shouted, his tone filled with terror.
"Now now, you should know better than to demand things of your host. Bit rude, I think?" Mitharios asked the surrounding Sparrows who chose to stay back and witness.
"Aye, rude it is." A muscular man chimed in from the corner, a cigar smoldering in the corner of his mouth.
"Wouldn't want to be rude, it's not the Elven way." Mitharios snickered with a snort of derision. "Now then, I know you are all too curious as to why you've been taken from your safe little home and brought to such a strange and light-forsaken place. To put it simply, the woman you work for is far worse than any of us, an impressive thing but it puts you in quite the pickle."
"The Baroness is a good woma-" The man tried to stand up for his Mistress but was cut off by the slamming of Mitharios's fist into his jaw.
"So loyal, I wonder if that'll stand as our night progresses, I myself quite doubt it." Mitharios was barely even warming up, the man would either give in or face a night of brutal terror. "Nothing about your bitch of a Noblewoman is good, or we wouldn't be here. Now, we have been following her every move for weeks and suddenly she and her lot are nowhere to be found. How could that be I wonder?"
"Must be some kind of trickery." A lanky Nightelf man spoke, coming to stand next to the hulking mass of a man who chewed his cigar.
"Witchcraft." Amytheisa spoke, her tone flat as if she was bored of the situation.
"Aye, Witchcraft." Mitharios chuckled. "But you and I both know that isn't the case, don't we Mister?"
"I have no idea what you mean." The man remained steadfast, unafraid of the actions of these roughens.
"Oh, of course, a personal guard oblivious to the comings and goings of the bitch he protects. That sounds logical." Mitharios's fist slammed into the nose of the man, drawing forth blood. "Listen, I'd rather not spend my entire night here, so either you tell us what we want to know or I escalate far faster than the norm. Your choice."
"I'll tell you nothing scum!" The man shouted, blood pouring from his nose into his mouth.
"I thought as much." With this defiant response, Mitharios slipped a brass knuckle onto his right hand, slamming the spiked rings into the gut of the bound man, bringing forth a deep guttural cry of pain. Just as the man began to catch his breath another hard punch slammed into his abdomen, taking the air out of him as blood seeped through his clothing. "Consider this, the amount of pain you will experience from me is a fraction of what you'll receive from the Boss once she gets here. Answer the questions now and save yourself from inventive and excruciating agony, it's really your best choice. She's a feral Bitch."
Hours passed, leaving the man battered and bloody. Mitharios stood tall, his right hand dripping with the weakened man's blood as a knock came from the opposite side of the door. "Ah, that'll be the Boss. Poor sod, you'll miss me when I'm gone." Mitharios laughed callously as Valanthriell entered the storehouse.
